


The Floatability of Fruit

by heycherie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Plot, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Aurors, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, M/M, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, POV Draco Malfoy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 14:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15487989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heycherie/pseuds/heycherie
Summary: In which Draco Malfoy is a bored intern, among other things. It turns out that Harry Potter is not boring.





	The Floatability of Fruit

**Author's Note:**

> Hi lovely readers,
> 
> I’m late to this bandwagon as far as writing fanfic goes, but I’ve been along for the reading the whole time. This is my first published work since I was 15 many moons ago.
> 
> This story just kinda gripped me and wouldn’t let me go until I finished it. I’ve seriously been writing and not writing it for years. The other night I suddenly came to the realization of exactly what needed to happen, and here we are.
> 
> Took a few liberties to bend to my whim. Big one being the becoming an Auror process. Idk how that’s supposed to go in canon, but I just wanted Draco to be a lowly intern, so there ya go. Also.. EWE and throwing to the wind a bunch of other canon stuff too. It’s fanfic, it’s fine. Ignore the gaping plot devices.
> 
> I’m not British. Sorry if that’s painfully obvious or if anything I write is too stereotyped. Feel free to make some friendly criticisms if there’s anything I should change to be more consistent or whatnot.
> 
> Ok, that’s all the comments I have for now. Please enjoy!

Potter appeared to try out all the concentration techniques that one would use in a situation which involved ignoring persistent distractions from “very direly important paperwork,” as he had put it. However, Draco knew that the paperwork wasn’t _dire_ at all, and watching Potter pretend to be thoroughly invested in his work was also quite possibly the most boring thing he had ever encountered in his life, next to droning hours spent suffering through History of Magic lessons. But still. Potter was bloody _determined._

It was as close to a routine as possible—he tried the turtle technique, upon which he dropped his head, raised his shoulders to his ears and pretended he could recline his neck into his body. And then of course there was the counting down from 10. And then from 20, from 50. The deep breathing. The intense—if not a bit eerie, in Draco’s humble opinion—gaze he trained on his papers. Lather, rinse, and repeat.

All to no avail. Draco swished another grapefruit into the Golden Boy’s line of sight and this time nearly smacked him in the nose. Potter finally gave in.

“Malfoy, what the bloody _hell_ are you doing?”

He peered over his glasses and glared at the blonde in such a way that would give any other person an indication to run and hide, but not Draco. In fact, the combination of the words “run and hide” (especially from Potter) were so inconsequential to Draco’s being that they probably didn’t make sense together in his understanding of the English language.

Instead of confronting that intense stare, and in an effort to circumvent the dull task of explaining his actions to Potter, Draco’s thoughts began to wander as his wand continued its circular movement in his grasp.

Although, as previously illustrated, Draco detested the thought of running and hiding (a true sign of cowardice), his alternative options for social survival had become quite limited as of late. In the aftermath of the war, everything had sort of just blurred for Draco. With the integrity of everything he had ever known to be true challenged and upturned at the root, he’d lost the steadfast grip of his black and white worldview. It was harder to make sense of what mattered anymore. Suddenly, he’d found himself for the first time unable to function at the level he was accustomed to. He’d felt abandoned by the world, partly facilitated by the fact that Draco’s parents, even having been pardoned of their war crimes, had promptly left him behind and fled to France for “security.” Granted, they’d owled Draco shortly after to encourage him to run away with them, but he had declined. England was his home and he felt a bit uneasy at the notion of moving to an entirely new, unfamiliar one. Too many things had changed around him, and he needed at least something to stay the same to keep him anchored to his sanity.

And so he was alone.

Social interaction with the public world was now monotonous and fruitless, so he withdrew from it instead. It was for this reason that he had spent a year in nearly total seclusion in the safety of his home. Not _hiding_ , Draco would testify if compelled to. He was not in fear, as hiding would imply. He was simply… intolerant. Yes. Intolerant of everyone who showed him the splintering pain of being cast away as if he wasn’t a real person with real hopes and desires. As if he was something sticky and unpleasant stuck to the bottom of one’s shoe. As if he didn’t matter. Prejudiced and judged. He was alone in the world, struggling against a current of faces that all grimaced and spat obscenities at him.

For a time, Draco believed them all. He knew he deserved every bit of it.

Though now he was finished with that. Finished with hiding and allowing others to chase him into seclusion. He had finally decided that society needed to learn to face him as he was. And he would face them in return. Because he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys held their chins high and their shoulders proud.

Those weeks of gruelling assault and torment from the world around forced him to come to a resolution. He would take all the insults in stride and tell all those pricks who gave him grief to shove it.

He would become an Auror. If Kingsley Shacklebolt himself could deem Draco worthy of protecting and fighting for the rights of the Wizarding World, then perhaps the rest of the population could as well. And if they couldn’t… well, they could just as well fuck right off.

The only issue with this solution was that he was forced to tediously work his way up the ladder to get there. He was currently undergoing the strenuous three-year training process, with about two months remaining, and still his light at the end of the tunnel didn’t seem to be shining all too brightly.

He knew no one wanted him on their side. It was obvious in their faces and the way they whispered when he neared, and sometimes by what they blatantly barked in his face. He merely soaked it all up and recycled it back into his vigorous training attitude. One day, he thought, he would take all the shit they’d piled onto him and fling it right back, in a way that none of them had expected—with proper justice.

As for now, he was being tested as an intern of sorts.

As if it wasn’t degrading enough for Draco to work for—Dear Merlin, help him—the Ministry, he was furthermore the lowest of the low on _that_ shit-on-a-stick totem pole. He had been reduced to someone who merely delivered coffee or tea and organised files and other such tripe below his capability.

And to top it all off, he was assigned to assist none other than The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-Draco’s-Life-A-Living-Hell.

That said, as perpetually torturing as it seemed to him at first, Draco found that in time, he didn’t quite despise his job as much as he’d initially anticipated. After all, it was his duty to essentially become Potter’s shadow, which meant having the opportunity to drive him mad as much as he pleased. And Merlin knew how much fulfilment that brought Draco. He had to admit, it was _quite_ entertaining.

“Hmm?” was all Draco said, as if he couldn’t possibly conceive how his actions were distracting to the Great Gryffindor Git at the moment.

This time a few grapes lingered around Potter’s torso, and he caught them swiftly with his Quidditch-trained reflexes, consequently squishing the juice from the fruit onto his chin.

Potter slapped his quill down in frustration and ran a hand through his hair. The hand not currently sticky with grape guts.

“What do you mean ‘ _Hmm?!’_ This is absurd!”

He swiped at his chin and sputtered when it took more than one of those flustered swipes to clear the grape juice off.

“Stop trying to detract me from my work! You _know_ this is important.”

Draco knew no such thing.

He also found a ripe sense of satisfaction at the sight of Potter’s now slightly pinkish stained chin. He would have given in to a small chuckle of mirth, had he not been carefully playing off the innocence in his actions at the moment.

Potter gave an exasperated grunt, and Draco followed closely the movement of his fingers dragging though that nest of hair.

In becoming the shadow of the light cast from the “Golden Boy,” Draco found that he’d become (alarmingly) hyperaware of nearly every movement that Potter made.

It seemed as if his eyes were sensitive to tracking the way Potter moved and how his mood and the atmosphere affected his posture; his tone—his general demeanour. Draco was always conscientious of how Potter was feeling because he was constantly looking for (memorising) tells. A wrinkle of his brow here, a twitch of his lips there; a flex of his fingers. It all became so intriguing to Draco.

It had dawned on him some time ago that he had this intense, irreversible fascination of Harry Potter, and that he even found his every quirk rather… endearing. Occasionally. Not very often. Sometimes.

Well, this realization was also fostered by the fact that he couldn’t explain away how much his eyes lingered on Potter’s arse as he walked away. He could say it was to assess the way Potter’s swinging hips predicted his mood, but not only was this not a good indicator of such moods, it just wasn’t true (Potter simply had an arse worth spending a lot of time admiring).

This, and how frequently he found himself focusing on insignificant details like Potter’s forearms when he pushed up his sleeves (he dreamt about those forearms, sometimes—sometimes they were strong and capable and comforting…other times they were pinning him to the nearest available surface).

Draco justified the fact that he’d quite fallen for the frustrating, _astounding_ man by reminding himself that it was his _job_ to follow Potter and adhere to his needs, which included knowing, understanding, and even appreciating his mannerisms and demeanour. After all, he needed to do his job right if he was ever going to prove himself worthy of being an Auror.

It only made sense that he would have such feelings.

Right.

While he did very much enjoy seeing Potter at his wit’s end—all flustered and frustrated—he did think they had, if nothing else, a somewhat civil relationship.

Okay, well, Draco _tried_ to be civil, but it was rather difficult when working with such an unobservant twit like Potter. It was like he was deliberately blind to all of Draco’s efforts.

Somewhat to his dismay, Draco was a good little intern; he brought coffee, not tea, every morning, and had even learned that adding extra sugar and a dash of cinnamon tended to yield more positive effects on Potter’s mood. He’d delivered excessive amounts of files and reports to their respective offices. He’d offered up “good morning”s and “see you tomorrow”s. Every now and then, he’d even initiated the briefest of conversations that had been sprinkled with small talk and possibly one or two longing glances. He’d been damn near artful about it.

Okay, so his efforts could have been misconstrued as simply being polite, but Draco would have thought that this fact alone would catch Potter’s attention, if not at least suspicion. After all, he had been anything but polite to Potter in Hogwarts. Comparatively, this was a drastic change in Draco’s behaviour. Surely Potter must have thought his actions strange and thus worth… noticing, at least.

However, it all amounted to so little, if anything.

That glint of content—of ease—he had seen in Potter’s eyes when he joked around with his friends and friendlier colleagues was rare to appear around Draco. The looks he reserved for Draco seemed to be stonier; more guarded.

Potter had claimed to have forgiven him for everything he had done in the past, but did he still not trust Draco?

Potter flinched away every time they accidentally brushed fingers or elbows in passing. Sometimes when Potter was in a particularly pouty mood, a flash of annoyance in his eyes sometimes extended into long glares that seemed rather malicious to Draco.

Either he was holding back for some reason, or he actually just didn’t enjoy Draco’s company.

Draco felt an inexplicable pang of something that _hurt_ at that thought.

He mulled it over for a moment.

It seemed Draco could do nothing, if not push his buttons.

So push his buttons he did.

“I’m not trying to _detract_ you,” Draco said, mimicking Potter’s tone of voice. He felt a smirk threatening to tug at his lips, but it fell away as he tried to keep some semblance of sincerity in his words.

Still, he kept his wand in the air, elegantly rotating his wrist so that the fruits would continue to dance in their intricate whirlpool formation around Potter’s office.

Draco sometimes fancied that Potter was his test subject, and he was some kind of mad scientist. If he pushed this button, Potter would react like so (record observations, repeat condition, record observations, adjust accordingly).

Draco was constantly trying to push his limits and discover the fascinating unknown, because he knew there was more. There was so much more that Potter kept buried. He could tell by the way he spoke to people and flinched here and dodged there.

Draco just wanted to crack him open and take a look inside.

Potter flushed in anger and he gave an exasperated exhale. Draco allowed a grin for a fraction of a second and returned his face back to its bored mask.

“Then what are you trying to do, Malfoy?”

Somehow, this was a loaded question to Draco.

And there were really a number of ways he could have replied.

_I’m sick of being_ bored _all the time._ Somewhat true. Although he found ways to entertain himself with Potter around.

_I’d like to see how much I can push you until you go completely mad._ Also true, but probably inappropriate for the specific occasion.

_It gets me all hot and bothered when you get angry._ Even more inappropriate, in a different sort of way. Though it would fluster Potter more, which had some interesting prospects.

_I’d like for you just to acknowledge me at least once in this lifetime._ Resounding “no.” Draco wasn’t even ready to investigate if those words truly reflected what he felt, let alone the fact that he couldn’t really imagine them coming from his mouth.

Potter quirked an eyebrow in query—impatient, possibly incredulous. While Draco was sat contemplating, Potter had all the while been awaiting his response.

“I’m testing the floatability of fruit.” The raw, circumstantial truth, with absolutely no insight. Perfect.

The eyebrow remained raised.

Well, really, Draco wasn’t exactly sure why he was floating objects around the room, or why he specifically had fruits in mind, but he didn’t know what else to try, and this was just as good an activity as any. Call it an abstract project.

All he wanted was for Potter to react. To just give Draco one peek of an emotion yet remained unseen.

Potter was unmoving, so Draco felt compelled to extrapolate a bit.

“It’s very simple, Potter. I’m merely trying to see if I can persuade... the fruit... to… cooperate with me.”

As soon as he’d said it, Draco realised that was possibly the most insane justification that he could have given, and now Potter thought he was a nutter. But what else could he do? Really, he’d tried everything to obtain Potter’s attention.

Everything but throwing fruit in his face.

So, in the grand scheme of things, examining the floatability of fruit could just as easily be considered the one experiment that would finally break open Harry Potter.

“Is that meant to be some sort of a metaphor, or have you actually gone mad?”

Draco, previously following the fruit with his eyes, thought he caught a playful undertone in Potter’s deadpan and flicked his gaze up to meet Potter’s eyes.

Was Potter actually participating in humour with him for once? Even if it was caused by an utter breaking point of frustration, Draco was desperate to experience this moment.

He thought he saw a flicker of a grin flash across the Chosen One’s face. Potter wasn’t directly faced towards him, but nevertheless, Draco paused, if only for a moment, and all but stared.

The flicker turned into a full-on smile, however small.

It wasn’t the kind of smile Potter flashed in passing or one born of courtesy. It was tiny and crooked, and involved more than just his mouth. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be noticed, but it was genuine, and it had certainly never before been directed at Draco.

Draco was bewildered by it. He tried to work out what could have caused that kind of expression and how he could induce it again later, but he got too distracted in his admiration of it.

He had apparently paused his ministrations for too long in his distraction because the light tornado of fruit around Potter’s office came crashing down. Strawberries and watermelon splattered against the walls; apples and grapefruits thumped and smashed against the ground.

Draco spent a long moment pouting at his fallen masterpiece and Potter stood and stared, green eyes suddenly locking with grey, his expression terribly unreadable.

Draco was then slapped in the face with a banana.

He stood blinking for a second, staring with doe eyes at the offending fruit.

And Potter lost it.

In the throes of the absurdity of it all, he threw out the polite chuckles and hearty laughs and skipped straight to the uncontrollable laughter that tore from his throat, gripped him, and made his insides sore. He giggled and gasped and even snorted. Fruits still flew everywhere, staining papers, and squirting fruit juice on their skin and clothes. And it all didn’t matter. The flying fruit went unnoticed as Potter fell into an uncontrollable fit of laughter and Draco couldn’t help but join in on the infectious giggles, endlessly captivated by the unwound and uninhibited wonder that was Harry Potter in this moment.

Once their chuckles finally began to slow, Harry, still grinning ear to ear, cleared his throat.

“You’ve got something… er.” He gestured vaguely around his own face.  
  
There was a glimmer in Harry’s eyes, and then, before Draco could even really react or wipe off anything that might have been on his face, all of a sudden, from 0 to 100, Harry strode over and stood _right there_ in front of him. 

His all-smiles attitude had vanished, his features now made of rough stone.

Draco was stunned not only by the unprecedented proximity of Harry’s lips to his own in this moment, but also by all the dramatically diverse emotions Harry had revealed to him within only the past few minutes. It was probably more expression from him at once than Draco had ever seen in the whole time he’d known Harry.

For moments in time, their eyes danced—left, right, left, right.

He could nearly taste Harry’s breath lingering among his own. He wanted to taste it, anyway.

He wanted so badly to crystallise this moment in time—this feeling—in which Harry bored into his eyes so close and intense that Draco could pretend it was passion and that it was all his own doing.

So he stood before Harry, stark still, in hopes that he could prolong him from fleeing at the slightest movement, thus ruining the poetic sanctity of the moment.

Draco held his breath as Harry lifted his hand to his face. He swiped a gentle finger just under Draco’s bottom lip and subsequently placed the finger in his own mouth. Draco could not help the hitch in his breath, and nearly cursed himself for it.

“Sweet,” Harry commented as he licked his lips.

A knot tightened somewhere in Draco’s midsection.

Draco, now quite attached to Harry’s trained focus, felt the magnetic pull of Harry’s gaze as it lingered a bit lower. Before he had the chance to restrain himself, Draco’s tongue darted out to wet his lips in eager anticipation.

Then, with sudden haste, Harry stepped away and settled back at his desk with all the grace that the Chosen Git could probably muster, his eyes now trained on the gloss of his shoes.

Harry gave a flick of his wand to clear away the mess, and then it was over.

After briefly threading his fingers in his too-messy locks and combing them back, Harry returned to his _direly important_ paperwork and suddenly it was as if nothing had happened. There was no trace of any fruit or fruit juices, no evidence of that devastating _look_ that Harry had trained on him, no bloody _distractions._ Nothing.

Draco supposed it _was_ nothing to Harry.

Draco was the one hopelessly aroused by that erotic display, not Harry.

He paused a moment, waiting for…well he wasn’t sure what—for Harry to say something, for him to stand back up again, stride over to Draco, and take him in his arms. Any indication at all really that Harry found even an ounce of the significance in that moment that Draco had.

Whatever it was Draco was searching for, he didn’t get it.

“Right. Well, I’ll be in the filing room then, filing…things.” Draco’s voice was quite a bit huskier than he’d have liked. He cleared his throat to try to dispel the notion that he was at all affected.

With only the usual nod from Harry, Draco slipped out to the filing room to collect himself. And also to file things, he supposed, now that he was here.

 

X

 

At the end of the day, Draco had packed his briefcase, and was waiting for the lift to take him to the lobby so he could Apparate home. 

He was decidedly ignoring his restless thoughts and still racing heart pertaining to certain events that had transpired earlier in the day.

Just as the doors were about to close, a voice rang through the hallway, not far away.

“Hold it!”

So Draco did, out of the courteousness and kindness of his heart. Really.

And with all the luck in the world that Draco could possibly possess, it was none other than Harry Potter.

“Good evening, Mr. Potter.”

There was only a slight edge in his tone. Okay, so the edge was more razor-sharp than slight. He was allowed to be in a bad mood.

Draco purposefully avoided meeting Harry’s eyes as he mused at the panel of buttons before him.

Harry glanced over at him and Draco could feel the intensity of another one of those soul-gazing stares, similar to the one he’d received earlier that day. It might have been eerie if he didn’t already find Harry so damned alluring. To have all that attention turned on Draco was nothing short of thrilling.

Draco couldn’t help himself as he gave in to the compelling pull of Harry’s presence.

It seemed ages that their eyes were locked in that gaze. It was one that Draco had never really encountered before that day, and he wasn’t sure how to interpret it. It… was arousing, to say the least.

Draco heard the dinging of the lift as it took them down floor after floor.

And then, with a swiftness that could only be acquired through intense training, Harry had Draco pinned. And not with his eyes this time.

Harry held Draco flush against the wall of the lift, his hands latched to the nape of Draco’s neck and to his hip. Draco struggled to breathe in a regular pattern as Harry’s body pressed into him, from chest to thighs. The “thigh” part of that sentiment was _particularly_ distracting.

Harry’s lips were quick over his, sparing no time for Draco to receive or respond. They were soft and full, tender and giving. Harry’s lips spoke volumes of passion in its rawest form, of need most compelling.

_Merlin._

Harry’s lips were… gone. They had arrived at the ground floor, and Harry’s lips had departed, leaving Draco’s moist, slightly bruised, and wanting them back. Following those lips, Harry’s body detached as well, rendering Draco feeling oddly naked, although he had shed no clothing.

Draco opened his eyes after realising that he’d closed them and found intense green staring back at him. As soon as he’d met that gaze, something had shifted in Harry’s eyes. Draco couldn’t pinpoint exactly what had shifted, but it was meaningful in some inexplicable way.

He caught only a glimpse of that captivating face before it too was gone.

Harry had Disapparated.

Draco stared in the space that Harry had occupied not seconds before and blinked. He was gone so instantly that Draco wondered if he’d hallucinated the past minute or so of his life.

Draco reached up and gently touched two fingers to his lips.

Fuck.

 

X  
X

 

The following morning, as he did most mornings at work, Draco brewed coffee in the break room for Harry and prepared tea for himself.

However, whereas he usually plotted ways to uncover Harry’s mask of professionalism, this time was now used to contemplate the events of the previous day. Which, honestly wasn’t much help anymore, as he’d gone home that day and worked through what had happened a thousand times over in his mind.

He decided Harry was torturing him. After much consideration, he didn’t really think Harry intended to torture him, but it was happening regardless.

He did not understand Draco’s feelings—how badly Draco longed to know what it felt like not only to be encircled in those strong, capable arms in the throes of pleasure, but also to give casual caresses just because he felt like it; to have silly domestic arguments that turned into passionate kisses and inside jokes that turned into those meaningful looks across a room such that they could read each other’s thoughts exactly and laugh together in a way that excludes everyone but the two of them.

Harry didn’t know these things that Draco so achingly desired, thus the accidental torture in giving him a small taste of something he could never have.

And it truly was torturing, mulling over the activities of Harry’s lips and if they were going to involve Draco’s ever again. Draco wanted them again, and more, his need nearly agonising.

The thing is, if Harry didn’t mean to torture him, Draco was having a time working out what his intentions in kissing Draco actually were (And Merlin, what a kiss it was).

Obviously, people kissed other people when they were attracted to them and whatnot, but there were no signs. Harry had shown no interest prior to the incident.

Either Harry was cracked in the brain, as Draco suspected, or he held feelings for Draco and was a damn good actor. But Draco couldn’t picture him performing Shakespeare at any time in the near future.

The worst part was that Draco was left with no explanation to shed light on the situation. Harry had not said a single word, or for that matter, sputtered, laughed, smiled, winked, or apologised after laying his lips on Draco’s. There was not a sound nor slight expression to give Draco a clue to what was going on inside Harry’s mind. Just a vague feeling of something.

He delivered Draco likely the most brilliant kiss of his life and then simply disappeared, leaving him puzzled and longing.

He was bold enough to push Draco against a wall and devour his mouth, yet not so enough to at the very least offer a means by which Draco could understand why.

No matter the reason, the fact was this: Harry had altered the very fabric of Draco’s emotional state and then left him to hang, and so Draco was not going to sit there and give him the satisfaction of being upset over it for another waking moment.

If Harry could ignore the kiss, then so could Draco.

 

X

 

Except Draco couldn’t ignore the kiss, as much as he wanted or tried.

That much was evident as he sat across from Harry in his office while they sipped their respective beverages and went about the normal happenings of an average work day.

But it wasn’t normal; it couldn’t be.

Harry politely thanked him for the coffee with extra sugar and cinnamon, and Draco inquired about his work duties for the day. The two of them employed simple, polite small talk that one would share with any fellow colleague. They went through the motions without a single flaw in their actions.

The conversation came so easily, that Draco began to wonder if he was the only one who was present during that devastating, magnificent kiss the night before. Draco acted as Harry’s perfect little apprentice of sorts, but all the while, he couldn’t stop daydreaming about the brilliant pull of Harry’s robes across his arms and chest. The sweet, low timber of his voice. The wild dark locks that framed his face. He wanted to brush his fingers through Harry’s tangles, then mess it all up again. He wanted to feel that lean body eagerly pressed up against his again. He wanted to ravage and kiss those lips, that jaw, that neck to make Harry want him— _need_ him.

After the intimate moment they shared, it could never be normal.

Because when Harry smiled, Draco looked away before it was contagious. When they needed to stand or sit beside each other, he would make sure that their shoulders did not brush so that he couldn’t be reminded of Harry’s skin and wouldn’t imagine how it would feel to stroke it in places hidden to the general public. When they spoke, there would be spaces between their words just the shape and size of that bloody kiss.

And so Draco was doomed.

Harry completed another document for his records, placing it in a folder and setting it on the edge of his desk for Draco to take and file away in another room.

Just as Draco placed his fingers on the door handle, folder tucked under his arm, Harry cleared his throat. It was clearly unnecessary; a noise specifically designed to gather the attention of others.

“Draco.”

Draco froze when he heard his first name spoken from that liquid velvet voice.

He took only a second to compose himself before he turned around to face his temporary boss.

There was a pause, and then, “You said my first name.” His voice held somewhat of a bitter edge.

Harry hesitated and seemed to contemplate that for a moment before he replied.

“Yeah, I suppose I have,” he said with a small shrug and a slight smile that he seemed to excuse himself with. “Anyway, before you go with that file, I, erm, I just wanted to talk to you about… well.” Harry’s pulled on his professional face. Then his lips dipped into a frown and his eyebrows knit together in an expression that read disappointment, and possibly frustration.

He gestured for Draco to sit opposite him at his desk. Once Draco was as comfortable in his seat as he was willing to be, Harry began.

“First, I—”

“Why did you kiss me?” Draco interrupted.

Harry was taken aback, but Draco had been thinking about this precise moment. Carefully preparing it; shaping it. He wanted—needed—to know and _now_. He wasn’t going to let Harry waltz around the topic. Whatever work-related thing Harry was going to mention could wait for another time.

“I don’t think we should discus—”

This time it was Draco’s icy glare that cut him off.

Harry met his gaze with a searching look then glanced away. He sighed and bit his lip. That’s when Draco realised that Harry was _nervous_. He was fidgeting in his seat and could scarcely meet Draco’s eyes.

Draco’s thoughts raced at this bit of knowledge. Why was Harry nervous? Had he not been prepared for Draco to bring it up again? That seemed illogical. Perhaps it was some sort of ploy. Maybe Harry _was_ a better actor than Draco had anticipated.

Maybe Harry really had feelings for him.

Draco dismissed the thought immediately, but his heart skipped a beat anyway.

Harry’s eyes drifted away from Draco before he spoke.

“I… kissed you… because…” Harry seemed awfully hesitant. He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I kissed you because I _had_ to.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and blinked, prompting Harry to continue.

“You don’t understand. The way you… the way you _look_ sitting over there all day, so pristine, so together, and—and so _perfect_.”

Draco’s flashed the most obviously unimpressed facial expression that he could muster. He drew himself up and squared his shoulders.

“Right. I see. The Golden Boy can’t tolerate the idea that there might exist anything that could have more perfection than he. Merlin forbid. You’re so bloody immersed in your own glowing image that you must muck up anything that you think might compromise it—”

Harry made to protest, but Draco’s tirade left no room for it, bulldozing right over whatever Harry was about to claim. He didn’t mean to go this far, but he couldn’t stop himself any more than Harry could.

“—so you had to go and toy with me to eliminate the possibility. You think I’ll ruin you, so you’re trying to ruin me. I thought maybe I’d been wrong about you all those years. After working with you these past few months, I thought maybe you were actually genuine, that it wasn’t all for show. But maybe I was right about you all along. Well, you can keep your bloody flawless image, Potter. I want nothing to do with it.”

Draco’s voice was surprisingly cool and unwavering, which was a bit unexpected, considering his blood was beginning to boil. He couldn’t be sure if he even believed what he was saying, but that was not the matter at the moment. He had to hold together his slipping dignity now in any way possible.

He stood up forcefully, consequently pushing the chair far behind him, and made strides towards the office exit. He didn’t want to give Harry that satisfaction of seeing him emotionally affected, so he had to leave _now_ , before he boiled over.

“Draco.” 

Harry, reacting swiftly as ever, reached out and tugged on his wrist to draw him back into the room.

Draco whipped around in anger, his control temporarily demolished.

“There it is again. You keep saying my name—like we’re bloody _friends_.” Draco spit out the word like poison. He forced as much calm as he could muster into his voice, but if looks could kill, well.

Harry forced himself not to roll his eyes at the blonde’s dramatic performance.

“No, you’re right, we’re not exactly friends.”

There was an unfamiliar, low, gravelly tone to Harry’s voice that intrigued Draco so, if only for a moment in his irritated state. Merlin, he was so hopeless. He was hanging on to his dignity by a thread.

Harry took a step closer, closing in on the gap between the two. They were a bit too close for comfort, and Draco was the one who wanted to fidget now, and would have, if not for his steel reserve.

Insufferable or not, Harry was certainly a sight. A damned good one.

“I didn’t kiss you to toy with you. Or because I think you might… damage my _‘image.’_ I… I don’t even think I have an image. If I do, I don’t care about it anyway.”  
  
Draco scoffed. “Oh, please, I’m sure— “ 

Harry interrupted. “No, you said your bit and I listened. Now it’s your turn to listen.” When Draco shot him a steely glare at this, Harry added a hasty “please.”

Draco rolled his eyes petulantly, which was as good a “go ahead” as anything else.

“The fact that you think that of me… that I could possibly… you have no idea how much…”

It seemed that Harry struggled for words. He stared at his shoes and frowned. Then, with a sigh, he steeled himself back up to Draco’s gaze.

“Listen, I had you pegged all wrong, too. When you were first assigned here, I thought you were a haughty twat just desperate for more attention and—” 

Draco scoffed, eyes flashing with rage.  
  
“I thought I wouldn’t survive working with you so closely. And I was wrong. You are extraordinary. Intelligent, beautiful, observant, attentive. You are something altogether I-I never expected. And I kissed you because I… well, I—I couldn’t _help_ it. You are so—you drive me _insane_ every day with those damn _looks_ you give me. I see them, Draco. You’re not exactly the master of subtlety, whatever you may think. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me with such… well I don’t exactly know what it is, but it’s—it’s…” Harry sighed a deep, forceful exhale. “Merlin, it’s bloody _intoxicating_.” 

Harry paused to give Draco a fervent gaze of his own. His gaze lingered so agonisingly long that Harry nearly seemed to lose his train of thought before he continued.

“There’s the—the _looks,_ and there’s those _intense_ grey eyes. Those legs… and, those _legs._ And—and then there’s you. Just… the way you—the way you are… the way you walk; talk. The way you carry yourself is like… It’s as if the whole world was made solely to complement you.”

Harry’s eyes were glued to him and Draco couldn’t breathe as well as he could a moment ago.

“And I’m sorry I ran. It’s pathetic, but I was scared. Scared because… I… know how I feel about you and I knew there was no returning if I took it too far. I realize now that… I’m already in too deep to go back.”

Harry broke his gaze and reached for Draco’s hand and intertwined their fingers, stroking his thumb across Draco’s. Draco’s chest tightened at the contact. It felt like blooming hope. He was scared, too.

“And then there’s the way you dress,” he said, almost as an afterthought; as if he couldn’t help mentioning it. His voice gained a lower timbre and he offered an appreciative roll of his eyes. “Merlin, it’s like you’re purposely teasing me! Look at what you’re wearing now, Draco! You’d think you’d painted that shirt on this morning. It takes every bit of restraint in my body just to resist the urge to—Because if I just as much as look at you I’ll just—”

Draco had heard enough. He ended the Babbling One’s sentence by once again pressing his lips to Harry’s, where in Draco’s opinion, they should be placed more often.

Draco had dreamt about those lips for what seemed like ages now. He’d been dying to kiss them again, all potential nefarious plots against Draco aside.

Draco kissed Harry in such a way that he hoped thoroughly conveyed in the most profound way, _Shut up already, I believe you._

His hands sought curves and edges and skin, everything that made up Harry.

It wasn’t enough, no matter how much he touched, grasped, and clutched, he wanted more. His need for Harry seemed all-consuming. As Draco plundered the other man’s lips and neck and jaw and everywhere else he could reach, just like he’d imagined, he’d come to terms with this fact.

Harry hoisted Draco up onto his desk and settled in between his thighs, where their actions resumed.

With his fingers thoroughly tangled in Harry’s hair, Draco nibbled gently on a space just under his ear. Harry’s head tipped back in return to allow him more access as a ghost of a moan escaped his lips.

Harry then climbed up onto the desk with him—papers and other desk trinkets shoved aside—gently pushing down against Draco into a new position and subsequently making room for himself.

Draco lifted an eyebrow, accompanied by a smirk on his lips.

Harry shook his head to gesture that he didn’t care about the state of his desk supplies at the moment and positioned himself so he was nearly straddling Draco. The desk creaked underneath their weight.

When he was within seconds of running out of air, Draco eased his mouth from Harry’s and asked, “What if someone walks in?”

Harry only gave an attractive smile and shrugged, as if to say, _So what if they do?_

Draco groaned in return, and Harry moved on to lay hot, moist kisses on his neck, his fingers threaded into Draco’s hair.

Harry shifted to press their hips together, and Draco choked back a desperate moan as he felt Harry’s arousal flush against his own.

The feeling of being wanted was a heady one.

Draco flashed a smirk, which quickly vanished as Harry drove his hips forward again, creating a satisfying kind of friction.

A rather hard bite to the junction of his shoulder and neck, and Draco was sure his trousers had never been so uncomfortable. He swore. He swore and he whimpered a bit and grinded his arse into Harry’s cock until Harry swore too, clutching at Draco, hips snapping.

A loud groan came from one of them—in the heat of the moment, Draco wasn’t sure who, and it wasn’t quite his top priority to find out—and he rocked his hips into the pressure.

“Draco, fuck, I… ohh!”

Draco turned in his arms, desperate, stretching his neck to reach Harry’s lips. Noses hit, teeth clacked, but it didn’t matter. Draco tugged at the Auror’s tucked shirt, undeterred. Harry was of course no help, hands on Draco’s face, fingers curled around his ears. His mouth was hard and insistent beneath soft lips. His cock strained under tented cotton. Draco grabbed at Harry’s belt and then dipped down beneath the waistband of his pants and stroked.

Merlin, the sounds Harry made.

The man was walking, talking sex; Draco was willing to swear by it.

“Quiet,” Draco urged in hushed tones, and Harry dropped his face to Draco’s shoulder. Harry bit his shirt to muffle his cries. It occurred to him belatedly that they could have just cast a silencing charm for their trouble, but that was wildly unimportant at the moment.

Draco stroked him harder, faster, slicking pre-come down the shaft with each motion, twisting his wrist near the head. He sucked hard on the earlobe so close to his face and tasted hair. That didn’t matter either. Not a thing fucking mattered, not when he had Harry Potter falling apart in his arms.

Harry groaned his name through a mouthful of fabric, thrusting deep into Draco’s hand, and Draco used both to bring him off the rest of the way.

He tried to catch most of the come with his hand but failed pretty significantly as it spilled over the both of their clothes. Merlin, he needed to unzip his own trousers badly.

Still panting against Draco’s shoulder, Harry pressed Draco backward, forcing Draco to lay flat against the desktop. Solid hands secured Draco’s twitching hips.

Then he crawled down Draco’s body, and Draco’s eyes were glued to the shift of his muscles and to the unravelling scene before him. Harry set his forehead just above the button of Draco’s trousers and exhaled. Draco panted. Quick fingers made short work of Draco’s fly.

Draco swore again. Draco swore a lot.

That heat, that mouth. The look of Harry’s cheeks hollowed out and flushed. Dark, messy locks of hair fell across his face and Draco was already so close. He wanted to touch, needed to see, but his hands were still covered in come. He didn’t want to get it all over the desk.

“I want to see,” Draco demanded. If he couldn’t touch, he had to have that, at least. “I need, oh.”

Sinking lower, angling his face up, Harry pushed his fringe from his forehead. Glazed eyes stared up at Draco above long eyelashes and swollen lips. Harry had yet to tuck away his own cock. The sight nearly made him come right then.  
  
“Harry, ohh.” 

Draco came to the sudden realization he had stopped thinking of Harry as “Potter” quite some time ago. Then, his neck gave up and he had to drop his chin to his chest. He wanted to keep watching so bad, but his eyelids became too heavy.

Draco came shaking and panting until he finally fell limp, a loose, simple smile on his face.

Gently, almost tender, Harry cleaned him up. He had found tissues somewhere strewn along the mess they’d created and he cleaned Draco’s hands and cock.

“Not the best with cleaning spells,” Draco heard him explain under the rush of white noise in his head.

It seemed Harry struggled to stop kissing Draco, or maybe it Draco that couldn’t let Harry go. It didn’t really matter in the glow of post-coital bliss.

In the next moment, a voice sounded from outside the office, “Harry, I hope you’re not terribly busy,” giving the two men just seconds to prepare. The most they could do was separate from each other by a few feet and zip their trousers before the door swung open with a crack.

In came the ever-intruding Hermione Granger. She surveyed them, all tousled, sweaty hair, heavy breathing, flushed cheeks, untucked shirts. The room must have looked a mess, with all the desk trinkets and such strewn across the floor and the two of them standing in the middle of it all. Must have smelled exactly like what they had been up to, as well.

In a belated second, Harry righted it all with a flick of his wand, but in that small amount of time even a complete pillock could have put two and two together, so the action was somewhat futile with Granger there.

“Oh!” she said, almost on a gasp.

Draco was mortified, but there was nothing for it.

She then issued Harry a certain _look_ , raising an eyebrow. It seemed so practiced and easy; Draco assumed Harry had seen it before and knew exactly what it meant.

“Right, well, Draco, if you would, you can, er,” Harry’s eyes scanned the room. “Take that file now to be… organised,” Harry stammered, thankfully dismissing him from the room.  
  
Draco wondered if hearing his name like that was going to be a permanent thing. 

“ _Draco_?” he heard from Harry’s office as he took off in the opposite direction. It was an inquisitive hush from Granger, probably accompanied by the same “there’s-something-you-have-been-keeping-from-me-and-you-need-to-tell-me-about-it-right-now” look.

 

X

 

When Draco returned home that day, he found the muscles in his cheeks sore and realised he was having difficulty erasing the smile from his face.

But why even bother trying to erase it and hide his feelings anyway? He was downright giddy and it felt _fantastic._

His mind drifted to Harry, naturally. Harry’s soft, persistent lips. His ever-tangled, impossibly sexy hair. His strong, capable hands. His muscular, trained thighs. His…

Right. Well, that was a somewhat dangerous topic to linger on if he wanted to maintain his appearance of definitely not a man blushing like a schoolgirl.

It was hopeless, though.

Draco couldn’t stop replaying that scene in Harry’s office. Harry’s hands everywhere, his body flush against Draco’s. Draco experienced a delightful, involuntary shiver at the memory. He thought he could still feel his skin tingling with the electricity of Harry’s touch, although he wasn’t convinced that wasn’t his imagination.

Harry called him _perfect_. And… he meant it.  
  
He ignored the odd sensation blooming in his chest and instead, he pondered what he might say to Harry the next day when he saw him at work. 

Perhaps he would just march right up to Harry and pin him helpless against the wall and have his way with him.

That thought was so intriguing Draco had to pause for a moment to collect himself.

Or should he ask Harry to have a drink with him? Dinner? That was classier, he supposed. Well, it was possible they had surpassed the possibility for classy at that point.

What did Harry want from him long-term anyway? This? Something deeper?

Draco’s thoughts were briefly interrupted by a tap at his window in the next room. He strode over to see a rather boring looking owl pestering his window pane.

Upon welcoming it into his apartment, Draco released the parchment tied to the owl’s leg and gave it a hesitant pet as it awaited him to read the note.

Apparently, Draco didn’t exactly have to guess what the next move was. Harry had decided for him. How boldly Gryffindor of him.

The note read in Harry’s endearingly terrible penmanship: “ _Dinner, tomorrow after work? HP_ ” He had drawn a small heart before signing his initials. Draco was overcome by adoration.

He couldn’t help the small quirk of a smile on his face as he considered his reply.

_“I will update your schedule accordingly, Mr. Potter. Yours, DM”_

Draco patted the owl once again on the head and opened up his window, prompting it to make its leave. It looked annoyed with him, but eventually departed with his response.

Meanwhile, Draco found his cheeks sore again as his lips stretched over his teeth in the kind of smile he hadn’t experienced for quite some time.

 

X

 

Three months later

 

X

 

Draco found himself, as ever, stirring sugar into Harry’s steaming morning coffee.

He didn’t do it because he had to anymore, he just really enjoyed the look of Harry’s face as he set the mug down on his desk. Sometimes he even graced a chaste kiss onto the top of his head as he did so.

Harry would look up at him with those vibrant green eyes and that special smile Draco knew was just for him. It was all stretched cheeks and squinted eyes. It made Draco’s insides go all gooey.

As he approached Harry’s office, he heard muffled voices from inside. He stopped to listen.

“—the new… partnership going, mate?”

Draco paused, intrigued, lifting his hand off the door handle and pressing his ear to the door.

There was nothing for a moment, and Draco wished he could be inside the room so he could see what he was missing. He wanted to see Harry’s face.

And then, “he’s… fantastic. I… really like him, Ron.” Draco’s heart flipped.

“Must be. Haven’t seen you smile like that since… well, in a long time, Harry.”

Draco chose that moment to step into his now shared office space. He strode over and handed Harry’s coffee over with a now standard brush of his wrist.

Weasley was just standing up. He glanced over to where Draco stood behind Harry’s desk in a proud, if slightly protective position.

For a moment, it looked like he was trying to swallow a lemon, but then he leaned over, gave one brusque pat to Harry’s shoulder, and nodded to Draco stiffly. The air in the room was tense, but it felt like understanding. They were not friends and might never be. But they had common ground now.

“Good to have you on the team, Malfoy. I… trust you’ll be good to Harry,” Weasley said, the double meaning in his words perfectly clear.

Then he left.

Harry raised his face up to Draco’s and smiled.

“We’ll work the kinks out in time,” he said.

“Indeed? Any kinks I should know about now before we get in too deep?” A wicked smile played across Draco’s lips.

Harry pulled Draco to him and kissed the smirk away.

“Mm, I’d rather thought we were in too deep already.” He brushed his lips against Draco’s as he spoke.

“Oh, you’ll know when I’m in deep.”

The pink flush beginning in Harry’s cheeks grew deeper. And Draco was smitten.

“I do like these Auror robes on you, though. You look sexy.” He eyed Draco up and down and slipped his hands around to grope his arse. He paused, then, “Did you get them tailored?”

Draco smiled playfully and wrapped his arms around Harry’s torso, yanking him up to stand.

As their lips met again Draco felt the world dissolve around them. He pulled Harry flush against him and Harry stroked his face, his hair, his shoulders.

He felt the rush of affection, of happiness (of love damn it, okay?) course through his body and make him whole.

The kiss was tender and soft and _good._ Merlin, he could do this forever. Stand right here and kiss and be with Harry. This was right. This was where he was supposed to be. All that longing and desire and pain and madness… had lead him right here.

Nothing else mattered but he and his Harry.

 

X 

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re interested in what inspired the bizarre plot device that is the floating fruit, I actually thought of this, interestingly enough, while playing the Sims 3 game (that gives away how long this has been sitting on my shelf half-finished). One of my Sims wanted to write a romance novel, you see, and when you go to write a novel, the first thing you do is name it. But it always gives you a silly sample name to begin with, which could be anything. You don’t have to use it. Mine happened to be “The Floatability of Fruit.” I laughed and kept the name because I thought it was cute. As my Sim continued to go back to this book to add chapter after chapter, I started to wonder what my Sim could possibly be writing about with a title like that, and then I started to think of Harry and Draco (as you do), and poof. This was born. It’s been a long journey and I don’t really remember how, but it happened. I really enjoyed writing this, so I hope you enjoyed reading. As I said, please feel free to comment with criticisms and I will gladly fix.
> 
> Let me know what you thought!
> 
> If you liked it, I do have a lot of ideas in the works. Who knows, there may be more coming.
> 
> Thanks bunches!
> 
> -CJ


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